Not What You Expect
My hand holds the knife
As it hovers in the air
Awaiting to massacre the dead.
Every cut precise
And meticulously planned
No matter the bloody mess.
Pieces of flesh fill the air.
Some discarded as waste.
Some saved for taste.
Split open bones with
Nerves exposed as I
Finish my task at hand.
Clean up the blood
And prepare the salad
For our fresh chicken dinner.
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